Run For Your Life
by kweenofalldreams13
Summary: So much can change in the course of twenty-four hours.  Michelle Fitzpatrick, little sister of the leader of the Brooklyn newsies, is about to learn just how much.
1. And Your Bird Can Sing

**Disclaimer:** I have no ownership over Newsies but goodness, if I did things would be different. :)

**Full summary:** Robert Fitzpatrick was the leader of the Brooklyn newsies of the 1890s. When an old rival returns to challenge his reign and get vengeance for his fall, he is forced to leave town, change his name, and take his little sister Michelle on a ride she never knew existed. Eventual SnitchxOC.

* * *

**And Your Bird Can Sing**

"Rob–Rob, wake up! We gots somebody at da door!" squeaked Michelle Fitzpatrick, shaking the shoulder of her older brother Robert. He opened his eyes lazily, rolling them when he saw Michelle's tiny figure standing over him. Her green eyes were wide with innocence, the ignorance of the tough world to come for her, of the struggle she was to face alongside him in the economic downfall of the newspaper world. She took after him as he took after a combination of their parents, their mother's inky-black, soft-textured hair from her Celtic origins, their father's almond-shaped green eyes from his Irish origins. Robert edged out of bed with a groan, brushing by Michelle to greet whomever it was bothering them at the door. He pulled back the knob to find a boy near his age with messy blond hair staring back at him, panting with a panicked expression on his face.

"Rob," gasped Joseph, grabbing at his side. "Rob, we got trouble." Robert tensed, his primal instincts going into overdrive. He stepped out of the apartment his family shared and shut the door lightly behind him, making sure to keep Michelle within.

"What's going on, Joe?" Robert hissed, not minding the fact that a well-dressed daughter of some affluent lawyer next door was glaring at him for conversing in public with some hooligan friend of his in his pajamas. Street trash could never be trusted, she reasoned. Joseph, on the other hand, tipped his typical newsboy hat to her nervously before Robert shook him hard, glowering at him. "Tell me, Joe, what's the matta?"

"Our territory's in trouble again, Rob," Joseph stammered, and Robert's blood ran cold in his veins. He slumped against the doorway, his heart hammering against his ribcage. _Not again_. "Lester Raymond, from the Bronx, he's back in town and the word on the street is he's lookin' to take Brooklyn again, wit' an army an' everything." Robert struck the wall beside him with an angry fist, memories flooding back into his head of the turf wars his newsies had had with those of his Bronx rival, Lester Raymond. Robert nearly got killed by Lester Raymond but also had gained his spot as the King of Brooklyn. Being a member of the newsboys was a seldom profitable business.

"Bulldog's lookin' for me, ain't he?" Robert asked, gnashing his teeth together. Joseph's eyes were fearful as he glanced between Robert and the door. "Tell me straight, Joe, he's comin' for me, again, ain't he?"

"Yeah, Rob, he's comin' for ya," Joseph said softly, his stomach turning uncomfortably. "We got messages from him an' all that's sayin' he'll do anythin' and take down anybody that tries ta get in his way, an' he said..." Joseph seemed as though he was in pain to continue: "...he said the foist ones he's comin' for is you and you'se family." Robert's fists clenched and his eyes narrowed. _No way is he getting around Mama, Papa, or Michelle. Not this time_.

Robert vividly recalled the last time that Lester had come around to Brooklyn. He had jumped Robert and a few of his newsies the first time, and terrorized Michelle, leaving notes threatening her and their family's safety on the door of their apartment. Mr. and Mrs. Fitzpatrick had spoken to the police many times, but a lower-middle-class family being threatened by the newsboy wars of New York was the last thing that the bulls wanted to get a hold on. Michelle hadn't been the same afterwards, scared out of her wits until he and the rest of the Brooklyn newsies had driven out Lester and his goons. Still, when faced with danger, Michelle had a tendency to shut down and close people out, especially Rob.

"No," Robert said firmly, his blazing eyes meeting those of Joseph's. "He ain't gonna get anywheres near my ma, or pa, or Michelle. Listen'a me, Joe, we can't let him get around nobody, alright? I'se gonna meet him up one-on-one and we'se gotta settle it, just one-on-one. I can't let him getta hold on me family, Joe. Or none'a you'se guys. You'se all is like me family. I can't let none'a you'se go down fer me." Joseph nodded understandingly, and Robert rubbed his knuckles.

"Boss...whaddaya want us to do if...if they don't listen, and we loses a man, Rob? Whatta we gonna do if we loses somebody?" Joseph asked erratically, nearly losing his senses in a panic. Robert shook his head, refusing to listen to Joseph's insane, impossible ideas.

"We ain't gonna lose anybody so don't you getcher long-johns in a twist, Joe," Robert growled adamantly, grabbing the smaller counterpart's collar and shoving him up against the wall opposite him. "Dis is _my_ fight. Not yours, not Trip's or Ace's or nobody's. 'S my fight, 'nd I'll handle it on me own. An' if you or da boys try ta stick you'se noses in any of dis, I'll soak you good and hard. Understood?" Joseph nodded his head slowly up and down, only gaining his breath back after Robert took his hands away from his throat.

It was at that moment that Michelle chose to open the door to glance anxiously at her older brother's strained, sweaty face. He pretended to smile, and patted Joseph on the shoulder in a faux casual manner. Michelle poked her face out of the door, her dark, wet hair hanging about her face fresh from a good bath she'd just had. Her eyes were opened, wide as usual, but only Robert, who knew her better than anyone else, could read the new-found fear in them. Joseph pretended a smile.

"Mornin', Miss Michelle," Joseph said, in a smooth, charming voice. Michelle eyed him over quickly. "How'd you sleep the night, sweetiepie?" Michelle's pulpy cheeks turned a flashing red before she opened her mouth to answer.

"I slept okay, Mister Joe. Rob, Momma wanted to know if you'se was comin' in for breakfast right now. It's ready right now, ya know," she added bashfully; she had always had some kind of crush on Mister Joe ever since her big brother Rob started bringing him home for dinner every once in a while. Robert heaved out a big breath, stepping away from Joseph and joining his sister with a single backwards glance full of meaning.

"Yeah, I'm comin', Michelle. And Joe," he continued in an undertone, making sure that his little sister wouldn't hear, "keep tabs on all our boys and make _sure_ none of 'em gets any tempted by the things Lester's got. You and me both know what he can do to a guy." Joseph nodded his head in understanding. He too had remembered the days when he and Robert had been seduced by the seemingly friendly ways of Lester Raymond, or Bulldog as he was called in the Bronx, and his girl friends, his so-called "Bronx Babydolls." Robert went into the apartment and tried to prepare himself for the upcoming battle, the final battle, he was sure of.

He didn't care, as long as this matter was settled once and for all, and as long as the ones he loved were kept out of it. Especially Michelle. Knowing her, the last thing she needed was Lester Raymond back in her life.


	2. Hey Bulldog

**Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, Disney owns Newsies. I do own the Fitzpatricks, Joe, and Bulldog. Lennon/McCartney owns "Hey Bulldog."

**Chapter Summary:** Michelle sneaks out after her big brother Rob and unknowingly falls into the trap of the notorious Lester "Bulldog" Raymond.

* * *

**Hey Bulldog**

Even though she was far younger than her older brother, Michelle could sense a sort of tension emanating from Robert. She pretended to ignore this, maintaining her typical sweet and lovable demeanor and fooling her parents. Robert seemed to see through her act, however, constantly patting her on the back and reminding her that everything was alright. Michelle tried to believe it, but a butterfly deep in her tummy made her think that Robert was lying. His new, nervous manners, chewing his fingernails and eyeing the door every few minutes, only backed up Michelle's beliefs that something was terribly amiss.

"Ma, Pa, I gotta meet up wit' some'a me boys 'nd sell a coupla papes today," he excused himself, grabbing his coat from the rack and kissing Mrs. Fitzpatrick on the cheek before he swept out the door. Michelle frowned, watching the first rainstorm of the whole summer out the window. Robert never sold papes on Sundays, and especially not on rainy Sundays. All the races were canceled when it rained, all boxing matches abandoned. Even the youngest, most tenacious of all the Brooklyn newsies, that Spot Something-or-Other, didn't go out and sell papes on rainy days. Before Michelle could speak up, though, Rob came back in the door, looking white-faced and jittery.

"And anudda thing, Ma, I don't think you'se or Pa should go out today. Nobody's workin', most'a da shops is closed for Sunday," he told her briefly, and she made to ask what the matter was, but reconsidered. She had enough to think about right now, what with Harvey beginning to get sick, and the letters she needed to send to her cousin Henry in Queens. Robert backed out of the door again, his knuckles white and taut. Michelle sat faux-peacefully on the floor, playing with her favorite doll Mary and thinking about what she had heard Rob and Joe talking about this morning.

_Lester Raymond_...what was so familiar about that name? Michelle didn't like the name Lester ever since Lester Marshall from kindergarten had a crush on her and showed it by pulling her hair, cheating from her tests, little things like that. Lester Raymond couldn't be very good either, based on the way that her brother and Joseph spoke about him. Michelle was a very curious little girl, and she wanted to figure out what exactly was the matter with her big brother Rob. So then she did something that she knew Ma and Pa would never approve of: she wriggled a jacket over her favorite Sunday dress, crossed quietly to the door, and followed after her brother.

Michelle noticed that Robert was walking close to the buildings. Sometimes he was hiding in the doorways, hiding from the rain and maybe other things. Finally he settled into a stitch of an alleyway, waiting silently. She saw Joe approach him and they started talking quietly, except this time there was a younger boy with him, that Spot boy, with light blond hair and cold blue eyes. He spit in his hand, her big brother doing the same, and they shook. Hm. The boy looked maybe Michelle's age, or a little bit older. He looked smart and tricky, and there was a little slingshot, made from strung-together twigs and some elastic strings. For a second Michelle thought he'd seen her, but he made no mention of the tiny girl hiding from her big brother in the alleyway.

Little did Michelle know that there was a third party obscured in that alleyway, closest to her. He was alone, but for the two knives he concealed in his trousers and the brass knuckles he wore around his fingers. He wouldn't be needing them, he figured, if his nickname fit the way he fought. Rob would be as good as dead once the Bulldog got his way this time

Bulldog was built big and tough, with huge, sinewy arms and thick, muscled legs and a broad, sturdy chest. He had small, dark, darting eyes and kept a constant stubble over his chin and face. Bulldog looked and was very frightening, and he was quite the force to be reckoned with, so Rob had figured out a while back. He'd been so close too, to earning the spot as the leader of Brooklyn. If Rob hadn't been there, he would have been the leader, too. All the boys feared and respected him enough, but Rob's interference had ruined it all for him. This time, Rob wouldn't be so lucky.

Bulldog's tiny dark eyes fell into the next niche over, where a small girl stood cautiously, her features trembling in the cold of the newly fallen rain. A smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth as he scrutinized her small figure. Oh, the difference a year could do to a girl. Even at the tender age of eleven, Bulldog's well-trained eye could distinguish the developing shape of a fine young woman. Once she was of age, she could someday be all his. Once Rob and the rest of his Brooklyn gang, the rest of her goddamned guards, once all them were all taken care of, Bulldog could have his in and get himself a good girl. All his Brooklyn Babydolls, despite the good times he'd had with them, they meant nothing to him. They were broken, damaged, just flat trash. Michelle Fitzpatrick was still kind, still innocent, still whole. The world changed you.

His eyes flickered, once more, over to Rob, who was talking very quickly and very passionately to his little lapdog Joe. He stifled a chortle. It calmed his nerves to see the one and only, the great Rob Fitzpatrick, the Big Brooklyn, all stirred up, all because of him. Rob's face was a deep beet red as he argued with Joe Callaghan, with Spot Conlon, the little protegé, watching and looking almost as entertained as Bulldog was. Bulldog suppressed another chuckle and strained his ears to hear what was going on. How he savored the taste of an enemy's fall.

"What do you mean, the two of those idiots saw her leave? And what in the goddamn hell were they thinking when they just saw her run off and let her go, with that jackass roaming the streets? I swear to God, after this whole damned ordeal is over, I am going to strangle Rat and Knuckles for letting her waltz off on her own in times like these! We gotta find her fast, Joe, we gotta find her before he does, before he comes after her, too!" Rob exclaimed, his face going an ugly ashen color. Bulldog smirked once more.

"Listen ta me, Rob, Rat and Knuckles are already on it, they're searching for her as we speak," Joe explained calmly, holding his hands down on Rob's collar, clearly overmatched by the bigger, stronger partner. "The only problem, is, uh...look, Rob, I dunno how I'm s'posed ta tell you dis, but uh, they took after Michelle and didn't call for anybody to look after your ma and pa." A slow, cold lifeless look took over Rob's face. Bulldog released a full-fledged grin.

What a headline: The Great Fall of the Great Rob Fitzpatrick. Extry, extry, read all about it.


	3. Help!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Newsies. I own 90% of the plot thus far and pretty much all the characters to this point, excluding Spot Conlon. And goodness, do I wish Jack Kelly and Snitch belonged to me 3

**Note:** In this chapter, I mention Official Newsie Law #5. In future chapters, I will probably mention my other Official Newsie Laws. They are also mine. :)

**Help!**

Michelle was indeed very cold when it seemed that Joe and Rob were nearly done talking. She held her arms tight to her sides, feeling a hot rush of blood in her face at embarrassment and shame at what she'd heard. She never meant to make Rob so mad by leaving. She just wanted to know what it was that he was up to. She moved toward the boys, getting ready to tell them that she was very sorry for leaving home and that she wouldn't ever do it again. The pale, frightened look on Rob's face was enough to give Michelle the heebie-jeebies.

And if Michelle was that frightened at the way her leaving had affected her big brother Rob, it was nothing compared to the terror that rattled her small bones when a strong, heavy pair of hands grabbed her around the stomach and the mouth. She tried to kick and bite and scream for Rob, but the body behind her quickly had her silenced. With one single swift blow to the back of her head, Michelle's eyes rolled backward into her head and she passed out, a sickening black polluting her eyes.

"What da hell was 'at?" Spot, the youngest of the boys, asked wildly, whipping around at the slight scuffling noise behind him and drawing out his slingshot and a small (but sharp) rock from his pocket. His eyes zeroed in on the slowly disappearing shadow at the other end of the alleyway. "Show yourself!" he commanded, and even through the fear and panic, Rob noticed the confident, leading tone in the smaller boy's voice. If he stuck around with the rest of them, one day he might someday be da King of Brooklyn. He shook himself from the meaningless thought and redirected his attention to the fading shadow, as Joe lowered Spot's weapon for him.

"Just a cat or somethin', I'm sure," Joe muttered, in a weak attempt to convince them all of the shadow's innocence, and looked back to Robert. "Listen, we gotta get to your place, Rob, who knows what Bulldog coulda done to your folks with you, Rat, and Knuckles all gone? We'll make sure they'se okay, a'right?" Robert nodded mechanically. Suddenly, somehow, the sharp pain in his gut suggested that Bulldog, or any one of his thugs, really, had definitely visited the Fitzpatrick residence, and this time it wasn't for tea or cake. He kept his mouth shut tight, abiding by Official Newsie Law #5: Never show any signs of weakness, especially in front of an enemy and/or a subordinate. He retained a stiff lip and led the march back up the streets up to the apartment building on Marble Street.

Michelle regained consciousness after what felt like days. She felt as though she was weighted down with tiredness on the floor of...wherever it was. She tried to open her eyes, but realized that, not only was she blindfolded, but gagged with her hands and legs bound together as well. The cold, wet feeling of the floor seeped through her dress and tights and made a nasty, stinging sort of contact wit the skin underneath them.

"Well, good afternoon, little Michelle," announced a slick, greasy-sounding voice, and Michelle's bones seemed to freeze within her, then and there. "My, my, my. It has been such a long time since we've met, sweetheart. Look at how tall you've gotten, and how pretty as well. Would you like to see how tall and handsome I have become, my darling?" She shook her head violently, and squeezed her eyes shut tight, but the blindfold was lifted, the gag removed from her mouth and a meaty hand forced itself under her delicate, childish chin, near the thin collarbone that the man's hand could have snapped in two without a thought.

Before her stood a familiarly tall, thick boy, his small mouth puckered grotesquely under a layer of stubbly shadow that was spread all across his cheeks and chin. His tiny eyes, black as tunnels and twice as looming and cold, hovered upon her, taking her in and spitting back out his own image. The black bowler hat with a single peacock feather marked his control, power, and identity. Michelle's small heart quivered in horror. His mouth drew back into a smile that looked like more of a grimace, but Michelle knew that face and that voice anywhere.

"Bulldog," she whispered, some part of her still afraid to utter the accursed name. He grinned at her frightened expression. It reminded him of that very same look his puppy used to give him sometimes before he done killed it by accident one time. Buster was a good dog, before he'd acted up and Bulldog had to hit him, just this time it was a little bit too hard. Bulldog wiped the memories from his brain, and brought his hand down onto Michelle's shoulder, stroking it gently with his thumb.

"So lovely to see you again, little Michelle," he breathed, the pungent odor of him simply wafting over Michelle until she was prepared to vomit. He moved closer to her, lowering both his hands down onto her small waist. Michelle felt very uncomfortable, a very ill feeling rising up in her stomach and throat that made her just about want to curl up into a little ball and die. "Don't call me Bulldog, sweetheart, from now on it's Lester, my beautiful, beautiful little girl. Just Lester, okay?" She turned her head away from him defiantly, making him grab at her chin again and force her to look him in the eyes. "Listen to me, Michelle," he ordered, his voice becoming dangerously soft and quiet. "I can keep you safe if you want. I can keep Rob and your ma and pa all safe for you, if you want. You just gotta do what I asks ya ta do. If ya can't do what I asks ya, then I might just hafta show 'em just how angry I can be, Michelle." Michelle began to shake her head violently from side to side.

"No!" she exclaimed, her voice squeaking in fear. "Ya can't hurt 'em, Bulld–Lester, you can't, please! Please don't hurt 'em...I'll do whatever ya want, Lester, I promise. I'll do whatever you want from me."

"Very good, Michelle," said Bulldog, nodding his head slowly. He leaned toward the much younger girl and smashed his lips onto hers. At first, all he met was resistance, before her small lips gave in and let him have his way. As long as Rob was okay, as long as her ma and pa were all okay, as long as Bulldog didn't touch 'em or go near 'em or nothin', it would all be okay.

It would all be okay, she promised herself.


	4. Helter Skelter

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies :( If you happen to come across the ownership and/or inherit it from Disney, could I borrow Jack, Snitch, and Spot from time to time? Thanks :) I DO own...well everything that's not technically in the movie.

**Chapter Summary:** The Fitzpatrick parents are brutally ravaged in their home at Bulldog's commands and Michelle remembers.

* * *

**Helter Skelter**

As Michelle was typically a very obedient, well-behaved (though dreamy and occasionally out-spoken) child, Martha Fitzpatrick failed to worry for the silence emanating from Michelle's bedroom. Instead, she got to working in the kitchen, the usual woman's workplace, preparing a pot of soup for lunch for her, her husband Harvey, Michelle, and her son Robert, once he got home. Harvey had recently become ill with a mild strain of influenza, so the doctor had said. A few days' rest and he would soon be all right. So Martha prepared his favorite soup, tomato basil, and poured some into his soup bowl. As soon as she had taken his soup to him, there was a brusque knock on the door.

Martha bustled to the door, her old, weathered heart hammering at the sudden noise, sure that it was Robert, who had probably forgotten his key at home again. She hoped that he hadn't gotten into another one of his fights: those newsboys could be absolutely vicious sometimes. She turned the knob and immediately the door was thrown back, as if it had been kicked. Martha fell a few feet backwards, her head colliding with the wooden floor. She began to scream, only to have her shriek be stifled by a heavy hand that covered her mouth, the other jerking her up so it could pummel a hard fist to the back of her head. Blood had been cascading out from the first wound, and with the next injury, it spilled continuously onto the floor. Harvey was still in bed, but upon hearing the loud crashes and bangs from out in the front room, reached for the gun he kept in his drawer. He was weak, though, and too slow and sick to stop the intruders from breaking into his room and beating him heartlessly to death.

Crunch looked over to Doc, who nodded slowly and meticulously, fixing his glasses so that they were perched at a better angle along his long nose. Steadily, Doc reached over for the man's neck, touching two fingers beneath his jaw. No pulse. He stuck his hand in front of the man's face. No breathing. He waved Crunch over, Crunch throwing the older man over his shoulder. They proceeded back to the main room, where the woman was. Doc did the same tests with her, and yielded the same results. Crunch dumped the man onto the rug and Doc dragged the woman beside him. The pair observed their work–a task truly well done. Surely Bulldog would compensate them later. What a proud leader they would have. Doc drew Bulldog's specially written note from his pocket and set it onto the lap of the woman, forcing her limp hands under it for good measure. Crunch grinned stupidly, patting Doc on the shoulder.

"We're all finished here," said Doc softly, feeling a fraction of a twinge of sadness, remembering Brooklyn life under Rob and his forces, going over to Rob's house for supper sometimes with Michelle and his parents, feeling a fool for going to the Bronx with Bulldog. But the sadness evaporated into determination. He had succeeded in his task and he would be paid richly for it, Bulldog said. "C'mon, Crunch, let's get back ta da base and get somethin' ta eat, huh? I'se real hungry, whatta bout you?" Crunch nodded, big and dumb as ever, getting his massive body out the door far before Doc. He looked back at the broken figures on the floor and whispered, "I'm sorry, Rob," before shutting the door gently behind him. With that, the two of them ran back to Bulldog's secret Brooklyn headquarters.

* * *

Meanwhile, Michelle's eyes were filled with memories, strung together pieces of time and ideas that had once been long forgotten. The first big memory, it was the one of the first day of school for her, and the very first day that Rob even started bein' a newsboy. It almost made her smile, as she remembered Rob's expression when she asked if she could go with him, his big green eyes, the ones almost identical to hers, bugging peculiarly out of his head. He'd looked her over real slow, pullin' at his hair and frownin'.

_"Michelle. You know dey only lets boys do da whole newsie ting round here, 'Chelle." Michelle winced when he uttered it. Robert grinned. He knew that Michelle always hated being called 'Chelle. She scrunched up her nose at him, a habit that she'd practiced since she was a baby to display disgust or disapproval. "Besides, 'Chelle, youse got school taday. Ma and Pa want youse to go to school, not go around sellin' papes. Ise only sellin' papes till Pa gets better." Michelle nodded slowly. Pa had been hurt a little bit in the factory, a machine accident wrecking his fingers. The doctor'd said he'd be up 'nd at 'em some time soon. Until then, and only because he was close friends with his boss, Harvey would be allowed back at work at his same position._

_"Rob, when are you'se gonna let me sell witchu?" Michelle demanded, clinging onto his leg. He stared at her for a moment before trying to shake her off._

_"Michelle, get offa me!" he commanded her, pushing hard on her shoulders, but the tiny girl's iron grip was stronger than he had anticipated. "Listen, Michelle, if I lets you sell on da weekends when Ma and Pa say it's okay, will ya lets go of me?" Her arms snapped to her sides and Rob stretched out his leg, rubbing his calf. "Good Lord, Michelle, I'd sure hate to be the man that turns you down when you shows him int'rest." Michelle scowled at him, sticking out her tongue. He wagged his head, mocking her._

_"Boys is icky. Ain't no way Michelle Fitzpatrick gonna be all int'rested in no boys now or nevah," she told him defiantly, putting her hands on her hips like her mother did when she wanted her father to cave in to her requests. "I'm tellin' ya, Rob, all boys is icky. There ain't one dat ain't." Rob rolled his eyes, slapping his typical newsboy cap onto his head over his dark waves. He patted Michelle on the head, gettin' ready to go. "Rob, ya nevah answered me question! When are you'se gonna let me sell witchu?" He turned around, scrutinizing his little sister with those eyes of his and shakin' his head._

_"Never, I hope," he said softly, ruffling her hair playfully and tugging his cap down lower, pushing out the door. "I'll come walk ya home afta school, so I'se see you den, Michelle. Be good today, kiddo." Michelle's eyebrows knitted together in the center of her forehead, as she remained dissatisfied, but shook her head in dismissal. She guessed Rob was probably like most otha boys she knew, completely and irreversibly bonkers. But she loved 'im, and she figured he was the only one of his kind that she would._

Thus far, Michelle was correct in her prediction that he was the only crazy boy she would ever care about. She certainly did not love Bulldog, Lester, or whatever it was he was going to call himself, even though he evidently thought that she should. She didn't. She never would. She'd never love anybody like Bulldog. Rob would surely come save her soon. He was her big brother, her protector, and almost like her parents.

Bulldog stepped into the small, dark, damp room, his face set grimly and colored an ugly grey tone. Michelle edged away from him, into her habitual corner, doing the best she could with her hands tied behind her back and her legs bound together at the ankles. Her dress was getting mighty dirty on this floor. How long had she been here anyways? Perhaps a few hours? It felt like weeks. Being held captive was painstakingly boring, so dull that, in a vain attempt to keep from remembering so much or being scared, Michelle had begun to count the cracks she could see forming in the plaster ceiling. Bulldog suddenly drew her attention, bringing with him the light of an oil lamp and an aforementioned unhappy expression.

"Whassa matta?" Michelle asked pretend-groggily. Bulldog had made it her first priority to get some rest. They had a long road ahead of them, he'd announced, a lot of things to see and learn, to gain and earn.

"My Michelle," he said, putting on a faux-soothing voice for his favorite girl. "Just because I come down to see you means something is the matter?" She went quiet, her eyes skimming over his hands, dirty and cracked as per usual, shaking, not as per usual. Bulldog sighed, and Michelle noticed there was a weird thing about it. It was like he was feeling somethin' before he told her. Like he had a heart that could feel something, possibly. But no monsters could have hearts, no monsters had the abilities to feel. She banished the thought. "I'm afraid I have some bad news, Michelle. Your ma and pa...they passed away, Michelle. I'm very sorry." Michelle's head started to spin and ache and her stomach churned, her forehead breaking out into a cold sweat. She weakly lunged forward, but was only vaguely aware of the floor jumping up to greet her head.

Ma and Pa? Passed away? No, Rob would never let it happen. He wouldn't have it. Rob could do anything. He was the Big Brooklyn. He could keep people from dying. He knew how. The rest of everybody couldn't know how, but Rob did, because he was Rob, the King of Brooklyn. And he knew everything there was to know about anything and everything. Ma and Pa couldn't be dead. Disbelief and rejection were all that Michelle was able to know. No, Bulldog had to be lyin'. Rob would never let Ma and Pa die. They wouldn't never die.

"Michelle, my sweet, are you feeling alright?" Bulldog inquired of her, falling down to her side. He almost sounded sincere, as he stroked her hair. He put his hands beneath her and lifted her so that she sat properly, and rested her up against the wall so that she couldn't fall again. She slid to the lowest point of recognition possible, her usually bright green eyes deadened down to the greenness of a swamp. "I'm terribly sorry about your parents, Michelle, it was a dreadful mixup with a few of my friends and I will be sure to punish them accordingly." Her head slowly drifted up, her cold eyes swiveling north to meet his.

"You killed 'em, didn't you? You had 'em killed. It was you," she mumbled. Tiny teardrops started to tremble out of her eyes, quivering down her cheeks and into her mouth and down her dress. Bulldog began to shake himself. Seeing his favorite girl this vulnerable gave him two things: horrible, writhing regret, and incomprehensible, irrational pleasure. He took a hand to Michelle's face again, softly drawing his thumbs across her cheeks as to wipe away the tears, but she spat at him, wriggling away. "Getaway from me, will ya? I ain't got no ma or pa no more and it's all 'cause of you! You stupid dirty rotten–"

"Michelle," whispered Bulldog dangerously, with the tone of a threatening teacher. "You may not have your ma or pa no more, but I can still hurt youse brudda Rob. I can still hurt youse friends Jill and Mary and Rob's friends, like Joe and Ace and Trip. I can hurt them all. I won't hurt you, Michelle, but I will hurt them if you ain't nice to me." Michelle, still shaking with fury, was deaf to his renewed threats.

"You killed me ma and me pa!" she wailed, her vocal cords nearly giving out on her as the scream reverberated through the entire room. "You killed 'em, you dirty bastard, 'nd if I could I'd break your face and the resta you from right here, I would! You tink I like you an' all dat but I never! I hate you, Bulldog! I hate you down to yer soul and I hope you go die and burn in hell!" Her outburst was so sudden and so infernal that Bulldog acted without thinking, disregarding the speech and all the warnings he had just given her, striking her across the cheek with a closed fist, and watched her small body crumple helplessly to the floor. He drew from his trousers one of his concealed knives, holding it up to her throat.

"You listen ta me and you listen good, girly," he breathed on her, his dark eyes glaring holes through her. "I won't tolerate none of this. You try something like this and I'm not just taking away your ma and pa. I'll take away everything from you. I'll take away your big brudda, I'll take away everything I just told you I could take, and more. Hell, I could even take things that you didn't even know you had, sweetheart. And none of this would be hurting me. No, Michelle, the more I hurt you the more I help myself. You big brudda's right in my way, honey, and once I'm done with you and him and alla them Brooklyn newsies, Brooklyn could be mine. And if you wasn't so ornery and mean, I could keep you wit' me, not like I'd have ta do wit' youse ma and youse pa and Rob." For punctuality, he supposed, he struck her once more on the cheek and then forced her to look him in the eye. "So youse do what I tells ya wit'out any arguin'. You don't get mean or ornery. Undastand?"

"I undastand," Michelle whispered, the pain from her new injuries stinging freshly. The tears began to well up once more in her doe eyes.

"I'm sorry, Michelle," repented Bulldog, stroking her face again, the uninjured parts. "I care for you, my dear, but I just need you to listen to me. Undastand?"

"I undastand," she repeated, nodding mechanically, and the last she saw before it all blacked away was a slow smile beginning to stretch over Bulldog's ugly face.


	5. Happiness is a Warm Gun

**Disclaimer:** I am in no way, shape, or form, affiliated with the amazing Disney production Newsies. Sadly. :( However, I do own the Fitzpatricks, all the Brooklyn newsies, former or current (except for Spot, of course), and Bulldog Raymond. Steal them and face the terrors of stabbing, shitting yourself to death, being hit by Mark David's car, and/or suffering at the hands of Fire Marshall Brett. (Likewise, I do not own Blood Drips Heavily on Newsie Square, a Max Casella Production).

**Chapter Summary:** Rob discovers the fate of his parents and prepares a select few of his newsies for the upcoming battle with Bulldog. The future leader of Brooklyn is chosen.

**Happiness Is a Warm Gun**

The three boys made their way back to the Fitzpatrick residence sprinting, Robert at the front of the pack, his features painted with fear and terror. Spot and Joe struggled to keep up with him, both breathing heavily and jaggedly while Rob seemed not to breathe at all. It was tough getting up the apartment stairs, the two of their energy nearly drained from the long run from Bailey Alley up to Brooklyn downtown. But Spot and Joe both were forced to skid to a halt when they saw Robert standing frozen in the apartment doorway. His body was nearly limp and his eyes were lifeless.

"Rob?" said Joseph softly, and the mere mention of his name sent Rob into something of a stupor as he slumped onto the side of the door. Rob's sudden movement gave Spot and Joseph a better angle into seeing into the apartment. On the rug sat two cold, dead bodies, stiff and unmistakably dead, and also unmistakably the bodies of Robert's parents, the lovely people formerly known as Harvey and Martha Fitzpatrick. Rob's breathing staggered, and Spot and Joseph forced themselves to hang back. "Rob, man," Joseph repeated, choking a little bit himself. He had liked the Fitzpatricks real well. Seeing them like this wasn't the best thing for him. Rob ignored him, marching up to the bodies, noticing something peculiar about his mother. In her hands lay a crumpled up piece of paper. He picked it up, his eyes scanning over it venomously.

_Hey there Brooky. That's right you've heard it, Fitzpatrick. I'm back. I'm here foor yur territore. In case yoor wondering, Mishelle is with me. If yu dont lissen two me I am going two do moor to yu and Mishelle than wat I did two yur parents. Meat me at the brige Good luck. Yur ole buddy Bulldog_

"Well," said Robert, sounding oddly impartial. "He could certainly work on his writing skills." With that, he shredded the piece of paper between his fingers and left the pieces where they lay on the floor. He kissed his parents, who were now unable to feel the touch of their son, and lay the blanket on the couch over them, so that they may possibly rest in piece. He charged to his room, taking all his things into one of his father's work bags, taking all the money he could find, and stuffing some of Michelle's dresses and her dolls into it, once he got her back from that accursed creature that was once called Bulldog.

"No offense or nothin'...but what the hell ah ya doin'?" Spot asked incredulously from the back, still kinda feelin' weird about bein' in the same room wit' a couple'a dead guys. Rob glared at him.

"We'se gonna go find Michelle and go afta the bastards who did this to my ma and pa. If you gotta problem wit' dat, kid, you can just leave now." He marched out the door with Spot and Joseph directly on his heels. They dared not question him, as his eyes blazed like great flames with his father's Irish temper. Instead they relented to his wishes, following him to wherever it was he was deciding to go. They learned as they made their way to the docks of the Brooklyn Bridge.

The pungent stench of fish made its presence known, filling the noses of the group of three boys, and their feet dashed carefully over the wet wooden boards, before skidding to a halt at the entrance of the Brooklyn headquarters. It wasn't as impressive as most other headquarters, seeing as it was only a bunch of secret compartments between old shipping crates from the Bridge, but it was enough to feel like home to Rob's outfit and enough to intimidate enemy boroughs. Key, the gatekeeper, stood on guard, his iron-colored eyes looking over Rob, Joe, and Spot.

"We'se off to da races, Key," said Rob quickly, identifying the Brooklyn code for, "We need to get in, and we need to get in NOW." Key nodded dutifully, stepping aside to let them pass. Rob reached up just past the entrance point for the bell that signaled an emergency meeting. He clanged it three times before waving over Spot and Joe to the meeting table. It was an old, huge crate with the bottom busted off and initials upon initials carved into the top and sides. All the Brooklyn newsies at the HQ made their ways to it and Rob counted up faces, letting his own go furiously tomato-red once he was done counting. "Where's Rat an' Knuckles?" A boy of nearly sixteen, long and lanky and awkward for his age, shuffling some cards, looked up, put down his cards, and put his hand up. "Whadda you know, Ace?" The boy stood up, gripping his cap.

"Afta Michelle ran off fer you, they'se said they was gonna go find 'er. Last I heard, they was down by da Huckleberry Market." Rob nodded his approval and Ace took his seat once more.

"Anybody else know anyt'ing important?" he inquired, and the overall silence was a sign of dissent. Rob sighed, his eyes still blazing. "Alright, here's the score: Michelle's missin' and we got Bulldog an' his minions back on da streets again. If Rat an' Knuckles ain't found Michelle by now, we'se gotta take t'ings into our own hands. Ace, Trip, I want you two lookin' down by Huckleberry. Brick, Edge, take everywhere near Starr Alley. Piper, Wheel, get out to da Franklin coffeehouse. Wood, Brandy, keep around Marble Street in case she didn't get very far. Key, you, me, Joe, an' Spot is gonna get afta a couple'a bast-uhd traitors. D arest of you'se go home but stay on yah toes." The silence evaporated in the bustle and hurry to get to your partner and assigned spot. Everybody had remembered what had happened to the last newsie that questioned Rob's authority.

Headquarters was soon nearly empty, but for Key (who kept vigilant watch over everything in sight, as usual), and Rob, Joe, and Spot, the first pacing nervously and smoking a cigarette he'd bummed from Joe. He fumbled for the gold-tipped cane given to him by the previous leader and used it to help his step. As the cane knocked against the wooden boards of the dock, Rob noticed Spot's eyes flashing at the golden tip.

"You like it, kid?" he asked abruptly, his voice coming out in a rasp. Spot appeared shocked but stood his ground and nodded. "Yeah, well...once it gets too dangerous for me to be a newsie around here anymore, which'll be soon, you'se gonna have it. Joe, come heah." He waved him over, and though Joe was hurt that Rob would choose the kid he'd just met to be leader over him, he obeyed. "Da two of you'se, listen'a me. I ain't gonna be in dis town too much longa. Joe, you gotta head up things till Spot's ready. I ain't known ya real long, kid, but I'm trustin' ya. Both'a you...keep Brooklyn safe fer me, will ya?" Joe and Spot nodded, then the two of them spit-shook with him. "Now let's go to the Bridge and kick some Bronx can!" Spot forced a lively grin and followed his leader in a hard run to the Brooklyn Bridge.

The Bridge looked very majestic as the setting sun tinted the whole sky a purplish-orange. Rob might have been more impressed with the whole vision of it hadn't he been so tensed up. He knew that without a doubt Bulldog had Michelle with him–it was all a part of that twisted bastard's sick plan to get back in control of Brooklyn–take away everything important to Rob and bring him to his knees, so he'd surrender his power easy. Well, Rob wasn't plannin' on bein' on his knees for Bulldog any time soon. He'd fight to the death for Brooklyn, Michelle, and his parents, before leavin' the foremost to safer, younger hands. He made his way toward the bridge before a small hand stopped him.

"I gotta make sure it ain't no booby trap and they ain't gonna take you as their pris'ner or nothin'," said Spot sagely, and the youngest of the four crossed out to the front of the line, the newly-created battle grounds. "Show yerselves!" he shouted, his fists at the ready and the regality already soaking in his young voice. "By da orders of Rob Fitzpatrick, one and only King of Brooklyn!"

Slowly, there emerged a small scuffling noise, like the one the original three boys had heard but had paid no attention to back at the alley. Key stiffened, his primal instinct to protect going into high gear. The scuffling became louder, and from the shadows approached two figures, so closely joined that they seemed to at first be melded into one. As they came closer, however, the boys realized that the larger figure was the vicious silhouette of Bulldog, and the smaller a bound, gagged, and blindfolded Michelle Fitzpatrick. Bulldog sneered at them, using his free left hand to wave mockingly.

"Evening, fellas," he hissed dangerously, his small eyes scrutinizing the frozen quartet. Michelle made a muffled cry, still struggling fruitlessly against Bulldog's much stronger hand. Rob's eyes blazed furiously once more at the treatment Bulldog had given his baby sister. Spot began to reach for his slingshot, but Bulldog shook his head in disapproval, only clutching Michelle more tightly to his chest. "You don't wanna do dat, kid. Ugly consequences." He gestured to his surroundings, and the boys soon noticed stalking shadows in the dark, all of whom, they could tell, were armed. Spot abandoned the idea and crossed his arms skeptically over his chest.

"Why you come back, Bulldog?" Rob inquired, his face and gaze cold and stony. Bulldog smirked.

"I came back, Robby Fitzpatrick, 'cause I want Brooklyn." Joe scoffed, but as Bulldog's keen eye turned to him, he sobered quickly. "See, Rob," he continued, rubbing Michelle's shoulder while she wriggled under his grasp, "I figured if I can take you down, I can take the rest of Brooklyn down. The Bronx...the Bronx just ain't my place, Rob. Plus, it was a pleasure of mine to be reunited wit' my sweet little Michelle here." From under the bindings about her mouth, Michelle uttered another cry, frantic as an animal in captive. Rob's knuckles clenched and went white.

"You took me parents away from me. You took Michelle. And _now_ you wanna take _Brooklyn_ from me?" Rob's nostrils flared in plain wrath. He removed his outer jacket and handed it to Joe, cracking his knuckles menacingly. "You and me, Bulldog, here an' now. I lose, Brooklyn is yours forever. You lose, I keep Brooklyn an' you gotta stay out forever. Now, give us Michelle back." Bulldog flinched noticeably, his grip tightening over his beautiful little girl.

"You win, you get her back," Bulldog amended, planning on never giving up his little lady. He, technically, had more power here anyways. Rob was nobody to be makin' demands.

"If I don't get my little sister back now, Bulldog Raymond, I can guarantee that you will never see da gates of Brooklyn again. Do ya undastand me? Give her back to me _now_, and _then_ we fight." Reluctantly, ever so reluctantly, Bulldog shoved Michelle over to the opposite side. Although he truly did care for her, Brooklyn was far more important to him than some little girl. Michelle was freed by Joe, Spot, and her big brother, who drew her into his arms and squeezed her tight. "I know he was bad to ya, Michelle," Rob said when she was finally free of her binds, and tears sputtered down her front like a fountain. He cradled his baby sister in his arms, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Michelle felt safe. "He ain't gonna touch you ever again, you hear me, Michelle? Never again." Michelle nodded, as Rob wiped the tears away from her face.

"I love you, Rob," she whispered, shivering still.

"I love you, too, Michelle," he said, and rose to face the demons before him.


	6. I Should Have Known Better

**A/N:** So I'm pretty freakin' sorry it's been forever, if you're even still bothering with this story. But I've been...uh...REALLY busy. Lots of things have been going on in my life...but that's no excuse for holding out on you guys! So here's a good one with a bunch of huge things and yeah...have fun reading!

**Disclaimer:** Same as always. Disney owns Newsies. Beatles own I Should Have Known Better. I own basic plot and a few characters. Pretty much whatever you don't recognize.

* * *

**I Should Have Known Better**

Rob released Michelle and turned to his boys, Joe, Spot, and Key, all of whom had the identical look of tension and seriousness on their faces. Key nodded mechanically, swallowing down a spiking feeling of fear and disgust. Before Rob could talk to the four of them, Joe pulled Rob off to the side so he could tell what he honestly needed to say.

"Rob, you an' me both know Bulldog don't fight clean, okay? So you two'se are on an even footin', I brought you some help," Joe said calmly, offering at the waist a knife and a small, sharp, jagged stone. "So you take dese an' only use 'em once he shows his. Do me a favor, buddy, don't get yourself killed, okay?" Rob drew in a deep breath, his head bobbing up and down. Joe took his friend and his hero into his arms once again, saying his good luck, and praying that this wasn't the goodbye. Rob patted him on the shoulder, turning away so that he could welcome the rest of the boys into the speech.

"So, you four knows da score, don'tcha? You guys gotta know what's gonna happen afta dis whole thing is over. Brooklyn is gonna be yours, Spot, kid. Keep her safe for me, Spot. Joe, you know what you'se gotta do. Take 'im unda your wing. Teach 'im everything you know. Key, promise you'se gonna protect Brooklyn just as good as you always did. Even if I do win today, I ain't comin' back to Brooklyn for a long time." His face weathered, and for the first time, the three of them all observed an old, wizened look to him. Through the last twenty-four hours, Rob had been through more than most kids would go through in their whole childhood, from just a baby till at least Rob's age. The experience had aged him more than anything else in his life had.

The boys all looked each other over once more, feeling grim and nervous, but...Rob felt something else. Rob nodded at them, cracking his knuckles once more and concealing his weapons within his trousers. The fight began slowly, with just him and Bulldog circling one another, the same as a pair of wolves would do in the wilderness. But they weren't wolves and they weren't in the wilderness. They were just a couple of poor kids with lives harsher and crueler than they deserved. And Rob knew it. Rob knew the score.

Joe moved wisely in front of Michelle's line of vision, lowering himself down to her level and talking calmly to her to keep her attention away from the brother she may not be around again. His voice was low and soft and Michelle took the bait perfectly. Her eyes did not divert from Joe's and she did not look upon the fight that took place between her former captor and her loving brother.

Meanwhile, neither Spot nor Key knew who had been the one to throw the first punch. But now, it was a dusty battle between newsboys, fists flying and grunts sounding. Rob stuffed his fist into Bulldog's mouth, then Bulldog rolled him down under his thick figure, cutting off his air and then socking him hard over and over in the face. Spot moved to help, but he knew that the fight was solely between these two rivaling powers. They both, however, could tell that Bulldog was becoming increasingly frustrated with the mostly-even power struggle. They both could tell that the flick of Bulldog's wrist and the flash of silver was nothing innocent or honorable of a battle.

"ROB!" shouted Spot without thinking, but Rob caught on to Bulldog, and surreptitiously withdrew his borrowed knife from his trousers and prepared to parry Bulldog's stabs. Their wrists met, effectively blocking blows from either side. Rob turned the tables, forcing Bulldog under him and managing to avoid his knife. Little did he know, however, that his hand was about to slip, and the cut that was meant to warn Bulldog, the cut across the arm, was about to morph into a jab of the knife point that fell under the skin of his enemy and into his heavy-beating heart.

Bulldog's beady eyes widened, his throat clenched, and he uttered his final words:

"You won't get far, Rob Fitzpatrick."

With that, Lester Bulldog Raymond's beefy, muscular body seized up, and he died.

Joe, one part excited and two parts anxious, leapt up from Michelle to greet his leader and congratulate him on the victory. However, for a particular Bronx newsie that was not paying attention to the fight and had not yet found out that his leader was dead, Joe's sudden movement was a threat to Bulldog's side of the fight. Participation from either side in the one-on-one battle would result in the tragedy that was about to happen. Joe reached out to his hero, only to have his attempt crushed by the bullet that rocketed out of Crunch Harris' pistol, the bullet that struck and killed Joseph Callaghan on the spot.

It seemed as though time had frozen while Joseph collapsed to the ground, falling in an arc from his typical strong stature. This body, the body of her friend and the one that her brother trusted before all, Michelle saw. Her eyes went wide, filling up with tears, before they all spilled down her face. Rob's reaction was almost the same, but he hid his tears from his newsies and his sister, knowing that if he lost his cool, the rest of them would surely do the same. So instead of anything else, he brushed aside the body of Bulldog, hoisted that of Joseph over his shoulder, took Michelle by the hand, and ran across the bridge as though the bulls were directly on his tail. They weren't–but Spot Conlon was.

"Oi! Rob! Rob, wait a minute!" Spot hissed after their retreating figures, and once Rob relented, Spot grabbed him by the arm, breathing heavily. "What...what are youse gonna do now? What's gonna happen now? You can't just leave like dis! Theyse gonna come back to get Brooklyn and...and we ain't gonna stand a chance without you'se!" In honesty, Spot wished that was the only reason he was in a panic. He tugged at his suspenders, his eyes darting between Rob's face and Michelle's. He found himself at a loss for words when Rob sent him a mere glare, and Spot straightened his hat. "Well, good luck," he said, shoving his hand into Rob's free one. Rob nodded to him. "Hope I'll see you'se twos sometime in da future!" Rob acknowledged him just another nod, and took Michelle by the hand and started to run once more.

When not he nor Michelle could run any further, they stopped, breathing heavily, on the dirt road. The load upon Rob's shoulder began to bear down on him, and he lowered the body of Joseph onto the ground. His eyes, nearly full of sweat and tears, diverted from Joseph's blank, unfeeling face, and onto Michelle's sweating, red one. She shook her head, panting desperately, and swallowed.

"Rob...we gots ta leave Joe heah," Michelle pleaded, her throat dry. Rob shook his head furiously, and his grip on his best friend tightened in the slightest. "Rob, please...ain't nothin' we'se can do fa him now. We'se can give him a good soivice. Say a couple woids. But he's gone now. Ain't nothin' we can do 'bout that." He shook his head again, but the protest was fruitless. He knew his little sister was right, and everything crumbled as she placed her small, puffy hand over Joseph's coat. Michelle looked Rob seriously in the eye and bit her small lip. "I can help youse dig da grave," she whispered softly, a droplet of salty water trickling slowly down her cheek. Rob nodded in defeat.

"Okay," he murmured, and began to shove his knuckles into the dirt. Michelle joined him, and after long, hard labor, the ditch was dug.

"Do you'se wanna say a couple woids?" Michelle asked him once they were done. Rob nodded once more and stood over the cold body in the grave.

"Joe...da best friend a guy could ever have. A great newsie. Tough. Strong. Loyal, t'ru and t'ru. You'se were a great guy, Joe. Tank you...so much...fa everything...We'll miss ya, buddy," he choked out, before the tears drowned the rest of his words. Michelle gripped his hand and wet her lips. "We gotta go now, Michelle. We'se...we'se gotta go." With that, he kicked the load of misplaced soil over his best friend's corpse and wandered, lost, to the next city.


	7. A Hard Day's Night

**Note/Disclaimer:** I don't own diddly-squat. Except for the stuff you don't recognize. Everything else is fair game. This chapter will include a certain familiar face.

* * *

**A Hard Day's Night**

Michelle and Rob spent the night in the darkest, most out-of-the-way alley they could find. It was ugly and rainy still. Michelle thought of everything that had just happened...it seemed to be too much to be only twenty-four hours. It seemed to be just too mad to happen to her and Rob...it wasn't fair, wasn't right. She huddled up closer to her big brother and wrapped her arms around his waist. She tried to pattern her breathing with his and fall asleep...but it didn't work. The next best idea she had? Wandering, of course.

She pulled her jacket up over her head and ducked into another, less-frightening-looking alleyway. At the end, there was a set of windows with bright yellow lights peeking out. It looked hospitable to Michelle, homey, even. She walked slowly toward the yellow lights, and out front, there were a few steps. She ducked behind a corner of the nearest building when she noticed the presence of another boy sitting on those front steps. It was a taller boy, wearing his classic gray newsboy hat and smoking a cigarette. He looked tired. Michelle kept her distance.

"'Chelle," hissed a voice from behind her, and she jumped about a mile into the air. Rob whipped his little sister around to face him. "The hell are you'se doin'? You'se gonna getcherself in trouble again!" Michelle flinched–Rob had never sworn at her. He put his hands on her shoulders, and his angry expression faded away. "I'm sorry, Michelle, but you'se gotta be careful. I thought you knew dat bad things happen when you'se wander around all da time..." She looked down at her dirtied shoes and muttered an apology.

"But it looks so _warm_ over dere, Rob!" she exclaimed quietly, pointing toward the lights. From one of the opened windows wafted the scent of baking bread. Michelle's stomach grumbled loudly. "And I'm so _hungry_! Dat bread smells too good!" Rob smelled the bread too, and for a moment he recalled the memories, the times that Ma cooked him good soup stuck in the most delicious bread bowl he had ever tasted in his sixteen short years, and the smell of–

"We can't, 'Chelle," he told her softly, pressing a hand against his own stomach, as if that would stop it grumbling. "It ain't nowhere for kids like us. 'Sides, the bulls is gonna find out about...him...soon and I...I could be gettin' into real bad trouble soon." He looked down, abashed. "I'se already got you into dis mess. I ain't gonna bring nobody else." Michelle nodded, looking down at the ground, her cheeks turning an ashy pink through the dirt, dust, and grime that covered them. "Look, we'se can find some kinda place ta stay. And we gotta figure out new names an' stuff. Ain't it gonna be great? You getta pick any name you want!" Michelle bit her lip.

"I don't wanna be anybody else. I just wanna be Michelle. Michelle Fitzpatrick, 'cause that's who I'se am!" Rob nodded, in understanding. He didn't want to change either, but he'd killed a boy. They'd be coming after him soon...he needed to become somebody else. And they'd probably assume that he'd kidnapped Michelle, too. Or something of the sort. His face sagged for a moment and he nodded again.

"What name you want, 'Chelle?" She closed her eyes and sighed.

"Adeline. Adeline Lynch." Rob nodded, and contemplated a name that would fit with Adeline Lynch. The closest he could come up with was...was...

"Connor Lynch." He kneeled down next to her. "That sound alright to you?" Michelle bit her lip and shook her head. He nodded. It wasn't okay. But it was...necessary?

"Okay," whispered Michelle, and put her hand in his. "I loves you...Connor." He kissed the top of her head tenderly, like a good older brother would.

"I loves you, too, 'Ch–Addie. C'mere, I gotta do somethin' real fast," he said quietly, and beckoned her closer. He flicked out his knife, and the shining silver caused Michelle–Adeline, rather, to falter. She froze in her tracks, eyeing the knife nervously. "I ain't gonna hurt you'se, don't worry. Just bring you'se hair over here. We gots to look somethin' different." She breathed out shakily and stood a few inches closer. "Okay...you'se let me know if I'se hurtin' you." She nodded. He curled a few of her locks around his and tried to saw them off as gracefully as he could. After a few minutes, a small pile of dark hair had gathered at their feet. Though the cut was rough, Michelle looked less like herself, and yet in a still presentable way. Rob pulled off his newsboy cap and placed it on her head. "My toin." Like he'd done with Michelle, he chopped off the dark hair that had previously fallen into his eyes and now sported a much shorter, much colder hairdo. A wind chilled through the alley and Adeline shivered. Connor wrapped an arm around her. "Let's go to sleep." She nodded, and sat down against the outside wall of the nearest building. Connor followed, holding his little sister tight in his arms.

"'Ey, Marshall, what you'se lookin' at?" squeaked a small boy of eleven in his leader's ear. The older boy, Marshall, nearly burned himself as he fumbled to keep a hold on his cigarette. He glared at the young boy, whose head had poked so innocently out the front window that he looked comical.

"Nuffin' you'se need to know about, Jacky-boy," he retorted, stubbing out his ashes. "'Sides, whatchu doin' out this late? Me an' ol' Kloppman is the only ones allowed ta stay up dis late. Ain't everybody else already asleep?" Jack nodded eagerly, searching in his mentor's eyes for some sort of approval. He was Marshall's someday successor, and needed to learn all he could from him before he took his spot as the leader of the Manhattan newsies. Marshall noticed the look in Jack's eyes and sighed in resignation. "A'right, fine, kiddo, what do you'se want from me?" Jack half-bounced up and down.

"I want you'se to teach me how to talk to goils, Marshall." He snorted.

"Why d'you'se need to be talkin' to goils already, Jacky-boy? You'se already got enough _charm_, wit dat ridiculous cowboy hatta yours, dat makes all the goils _I_ know at Medda's place just _go crazy_." To punctuate his statement, he tipped the young boy's hat up with his pointer finger. Jack's face burned but he was glad that Marshall was able to see the good in him. What use it'd be to make Jack leader someday. He scratched his neck in embarrassment and looked up sheepishly at his superior.

"Well, you'se sees dat goil ovah dere? I t'ink she's kinda cute. I mean, even when that guy chopped off some'a her hair," he said quietly, pointing over to the wall where slept Adeline and Connor. Baffled, Marshall stood up and craned his neck to see the sleeping figures. He marched down the steps, intending fully to order the pair to get off their property or they'd get the landlord. But before he could even completely clear the stairs, Jack was on his heels, tugging on his arm. "Wait, Marshall! We'se can ask 'em to stay at da lodging house wit' us? They don't looks like scabbas, and they gots a newsies hat!" he announced, waving his arm excitedly at the hat dangling precariously off Adeline's head. "C'mon, Marshall, let's ask 'em!" Marshall looked down critically at the small, exuberant child, and sighed.

"Fine. But you'se gotta ask 'em, kid." Jack nodded, and bounded over to Adeline and Connor, and began shaking Connor's shoulder. Marshall followed, watching and rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Oi! Wake up, you'se two! Wake up, I gots somethin' ta ask ya!" he yelled, and Connor's eyes snapped open. Adeline rubbed her eyes and stared at the little boy in front of her. "'Ey, I was wonderin' if you'se two wanted to come stay wit' us at our lodgin' house. Me an' Marshall is newsies! An' if you'se wanna stay longer, you'se can just sell papes wit' us. I could teacha!" Marshall had to put his hand on the boy's shoulder to keep him from bouncing any more. Adeline glanced up at Connor.

"Plleeeeeeease, R–Connor, pretty pretty pretty pretty please? It's probably really really _really _warm in there and they probably has food and–" Connor sighed again and placed his hand over Adeline's mouth. He looked up at the other boys.

"Sellin' papes, that's all we'se gotta do? Sell papes and give the money we get to da person who owns you'se lodgin' house? Dat's it?" His eyes narrowed at the older-lookin' one. Connor was a newsie by blood, and he knew that there was tricks the Manhattans could play that were almost as tricky as he and his Brooklyn boys could. The older-lookin' one returned the skeptical look with just the same ferocity.

"You'se are gonna be da new guys. You'se gotta loin the tricks of _our_ trade. You'se gotta listen to _everything_ I tells ya. 'Cause I'se the leader of the Manhattan newsies. And if I find out anythin' I don't like is goin' on, I gots the authority to kick you both out faster than you can say 'headlines.'" His look was serious and Connor nodded somewhat defiantly. Internally, his pride was crashing against his rationality; he was the King of Brooklyn!–of course, that was over...so now, if he wanted to survive, he had to live by the rule of others. "What's you'se names, driftas?"

"I'se Connor Lynch. And dis is me sister, Adeline. And we'se wants in." He spit on his hand and offered it to Marshall, who eyed the duo carefully before he spit into his own hand and shook with Connor.

"C'mon, you'se two, it's gettin' cold out here," he muttered, and led the unlikely foursome into Kloppman's Newsboys Lodging House.


End file.
